Breaking With Tradition
by Sacharizza
Summary: Two different days in a time of relative peace in Altaïr's life, set in 1195 A.D. Sappy piece of family fluff. Oneshot.


_Disclaimer:_ I do not own Assassin's Creed nor any of its characters, as they belong to Ubisoft Montreal. That being said, a couple of the characters in this story are of my own creation.

**A/N: Not sure where this came from, but I wrote it, so here it is. Characters may be out of character (aren't they always?), but since we've only ever seen Altaïr in times of strife, we can't really know what he's like when he's not racing back and forth between cities, cutting throats and running for his life, right? I wrote this because I had fun with it, and I hope some of you will enjoy reading it as well. Reviews are appreciated, especially constructive criticism, as English is not my mother tongue. Happy reading, whether you find it here or elsewhere!  
**

* * *

"Burn our flags and abandon our fortresses?" Malik repeated, puzzled by the suggestion. "For what purpose, Altaïr?"

"The Assassin brotherhood has become too exposed," said Altaïr, gesturing around himself. The two were sitting across from each other in the Grand Master's study, their conversation fenced in by towering bookshelves and piles of musty old parchment. "Our banners, strongholds and especially our actions represent our Order as a very threatening and unpredictable organization which invokes fear and suspicion in the minds of others. Worse still, we have made enemies in many parts of the world, for our foes are spread throughout it. Should the Templars manage to gather a sufficient force or enlist the aid of a powerful ally, they may simply march into our village and slaughter us like they did under Robert de Sable's command four years ago."

"But they were unsuccessful," countered Malik. "We repelled their attack with minimal casualties. After all, their defeat was partly your doing," he added, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

"So far, we have been lucky, but I worry we put too much faith in our walls," Altaïr continued. "If the Order were to operate more discreetly, it would be harder for the Templars to-" Altaïr stopped in mid-sentence as he heard light footsteps approaching, and a young woman emerged from between the dusty shelves.

"Maria," he breathed. She paused a considerable distance away from his desk and surveyed the two men, brushing her loose hair out of her face. Altaïr gazed hungrily at her, longing to rush to her side, lift her off her feet, embrace her and kiss her, but he grudgingly stayed where he was.

"Altaïr," she said, her gaze moving from him to Malik and back again. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

In response, Malik got to his feet. "No, I was just about to leave," he lied, giving Altaïr a pat on the shoulder before turning back to Maria. "He's all yours."

As the one-armed Assassin left the study, Maria fidgeted for a moment. Altaïr remained seated and said nothing, watching her as patiently as he could muster.

"Come with me?" she asked hesitantly after a short silence, stretching her hand toward him. Altaïr stood up – perhaps a little faster than he intended – and took her hand eagerly in his. It had been too long since he had touched her. She turned around, led him down the stone staircase and exited the library through the back gate, entering the four-leveled lush garden at the rear of the fortress. Altaïr sometimes went here to brood. The fragrances of the flowers, the comforting gurgle of the stream, the soothing breeze and the beautiful view of the Orontes Valley surrounding Masyaf usually left him with a sense of tranquility. Now, however, his full attention was focused upon the woman walking ahead of him. Her long, wavy raven hair brushed briefly against his cheek as the wind caught it, and he inhaled slowly, relishing her scent while ignoring that of the flowers for once. He followed quietly until she stopped by the fence in the lowest section of the garden. Thankfully, the area was deserted. She did not release his hand, and he was grateful for it.

It was just after sunset, and the final rays of light had dyed the sky a rich pink. Altaïr paused to admire the rare spectacle, as did Maria. An eagle soared across the horizon far ahead of them, bathed in the receding orange glow. Altaïr watched the bird as it glided gracefully down toward the valley and eventually disappeared among the hills and cliffs below them. He waited for Maria to say something, but she simply stood next to him like a glorious statue. Her eyes were glazed, fixed upon something far in the distance, and he suspected her mind was equally far away.

By the time the sky had darkened into a deep violet, Altaïr was itching to speak to her, but he clenched his jaw shut as he recalled Malik's words. _Give her time to think._ Instead, he reached up, pulled his hood off and shook his head, appreciating the cool breeze around his face. As he did so, a tuft of his thick dark hair fell over his forehead, and he reached up to brush it out of his eyes.

"You need a haircut," said Maria suddenly, and he turned to see her smiling warmly at him.

"Yes, I suppose I do," he said, looking at her longingly. But then she dropped her gaze, her smile melting away like the last remains of sunlight had done. The minutes dragged on, and the darkness of night enveloped them. Just when Altaïr thought he couldn't stand the silence any longer, Maria abruptly seized the front of his robes, pulled him roughly to her and kissed him passionately. He returned her kiss joyfully, almost lifting her off the ground, his right hand on the small of her back, his left buried in her hair. For a few moments, the two were ablaze, blissfully lost in each other's embrace. Then they relaxed, their kisses and caresses more gentle, and they slowly broke apart. Altaïr sighed contently, resting his forehead against hers, breathing her in.

"I've missed you, Maria," he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her. The dim moonlight peeking from between the clouds above them were reflected in her own eyes as she returned his gaze. She gave a small nod.

"I've missed you, too," she said in an odd voice. She seemed to be both nervous and confused by something at the same time. "But I- I've been scared."

"Maria, you know you can tell me anything," Altaïr murmured, stroking her cheek. "So will you please explain to me why you have been so distant in the past few weeks?"

Maria had been behaving strangely around him for almost an entire month. It had felt like longer. Shortly after their return home from their wedding ceremony in Limassol, she had started avoiding his eyes when they spoke and spending a lot of time by herself. She had disappeared from Masyaf for several days on more than one occasion, claiming to have gone on hunting trips and journeys through the forests around the valley. Altaïr was unsure if she was being honest with him, for she had bluntly refused his request to accompany her. As there was nothing he could do to stop her, Altaïr had reluctantly let her go, barely managing to keep himself from following her. He had asked her repeatedly what was wrong, but she had denied his claims whenever he had brought it up. The worst of it was that all of it was so terribly unlike her. Maria was the bravest and boldest woman he had ever met. She had always been confident, independent, passionate and stubborn to the core, and Altaïr loved her deeply for it. She had never behaved like this with him. Afraid he had unwittingly done something to hurt her, he had sought Malik's advice, as he had developed a habit of doing regarding most matters. To his surprise, his friend admitted that he had spoken with Maria once without his knowledge.

"_I met her by chance one evening in the library, just a few days after the two of you returned from Limassol,"_ Malik had told him. _"I could tell she was distressed, but when I asked her about her troubles, she made me swear not to breathe a word to you about it. She wants to tell you herself when she is ready. Try to be patient."_ Altaïr had tried not to feel disgruntled when he learned that Maria had confided in Malik rather than himself, but he had followed his friend's advice nonetheless. In a rather desperate attempt not to dwell on what was the matter with his wife, Altaïr had buried himself in his work, training the Assassins personally both in combat, stealth and tactics, studying the deeper political workings of the Order and pondering over the nature of the Apple of Eden.

Now, the anxious curiosity concerning Maria had started twisting in his stomach once more. It seemed like she was finally ready to talk to him. She took a deep breath and a step back from him. She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She paused and drew another long breath.

"I am with child, Altaïr," she said in a rush, as if she thought she might forget the right words if she did not utter them fast enough. Altaïr froze where he stood, staring blankly at her.

"What?" he stuttered after a rather long pause. He had not heard her right.

"I am pregnant," she repeated slowly, allowing no room for misapprehension. She tried to appear calm, but her voice shook slightly and she fumbled with her hands as she waited for him to respond.

"Are you certain?" Altaïr croaked after several oddly long seconds.

"Positive," she said heavily.

Altaïr stepped unsteadily backwards until he felt his back hit something tall and hard. He didn't care exactly what it was, and let it support him as Maria's word – which would be simple and small to anyone but himself – slowly sank in.

_Positive._

"Altaïr?" Maria called out as she watched his disbelieving expression become numb and vacant. She took a few steps toward him but remained standing, her face etched with fear. He did not seem to hear her.

_Me... a father? _He could not imagine it. His mind buzzed uncontrollably, memories of his own father flashing through it. He had never known much about Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, but he had always admired him. Always sought his approval, until the day he had been taken from him. He had no memories of his mother, for she had perished shortly after his birth. But back then, the Assassins had not been allowed the luxury of loving their children. It was still not customary. Instead they were left to their mothers or nursemaids while their fathers continued their work. Love was regarded as an emotional weakness among the members of the Order. A weakness to be hidden from view.

"Altaïr!" a voice shouted desperately near him, wrenching him back to reality. "Please say something, I can't bear this!"

The Assassin blinked, looked up and saw Maria – his beloved partner and his whole world – standing in front of him, looking rather distraught. Her hands were wrapped around a lock of her hair which hung over her shoulder, and she was pulling uneasily on it while biting down on her lower lip. Only then did he notice that he had sunk to the ground, his back supported by one of the smooth stone pillars of the garden fence, but it did not matter. A strange mixture of emotions was coursing through him. It was an unfamiliar sensation which left behind both terror and elation. He reached up, offering Maria his hand.

"Sit with me," he said once he found his tongue, but he didn't quite recognize his own voice. His wife kept tugging on her hair for a few moments before tentatively sitting down next to him. Her eyes, he realized then, were wet with tears, and he pulled her onto his lap and hugged her tightly. She let out an odd sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh.

"Please say something," she pleaded again, resting the back of her head against his chest.

"Forgive me, Maria. I did not mean to upset you further, but you... caught me by surprise," he murmured into her hair.

"Really? I hardly noticed," she said, and Altaïr was glad to hear the characteristic irony in her voice again.

"Are you afraid?" he asked her quietly. "Is that why you did not wish to tell me?"

"I am terrified, Altaïr," she whispered. "I never imagined I would have children, but I'm also afraid that you-" Her voice broke and she paused.

"That I would not want the child," he finished, the realization dropping into his head. She nodded. Altaïr thought.

_Do I want a child? _Then he shook his head ever so slightly. _No. Not just any child. This is _our _child... _His thoughts swirled back to his own father and mother and their absence in Altaïr's life. An absence that had left a jagged hole behind it.

_Will I make a good father? _That was the next thing on his mind, and he realized he truly wanted to be. He wanted to give his child the father he himself had never had. Though Altaïr had loved his father, there was always a wall between them- a distance they were never able to close. Sometimes, Altaïr had caught his father looking at him with strange eyes, as if he did not know how he felt about the boy in front of him. Was it fatherly love? Sorrow? Resentment, even? Altaïr had never understood those eyes as a child, and now that he thought he might, he no longer wanted to.

_What if something goes wrong? _he wondered then with a grimace, and at that point he had his answer. A hollow pain settled in his chest at the thought of the small, fragile life inside Maria being extinguished. Now that it was there, he did not want to let it go. But at the same time, he was gripped with fear at the prospect of losing his wife the same way he had lost his own mother. Childbearing was risky.

Something wet dripped onto his chest. Maria was shaking slightly is his arms, and he lifted his hand to wipe the tears from her face.

"Shhh, calm down, my love," he muttered soothingly, kissing the top of her head. He realized his silence had frightened her.

"Why do you think I married you?" he asked. She did not answer, so he adjusted his position slightly and turned her face towards his so she could see him.

"I love you more than anything, Maria, never doubt that," he said firmly, gazing steadily into her green, almond eyes. Her pained expression softened.

"I know," she said, her voice barely audible.

"Now listen to me, and listen well," said Altaïr, pausing for effect. "Even though I am probably as afraid as you are, I- I don't think I could bear it if we lost our child now that I know it is on the way," he said sincerely, feeling the hollow ache pulse uncomfortably in response to his words.

Maria's lower lip trembled. "Truly?" she asked, her expression unreadable.

"Positive," he said, copying her word. "My question is; do _you_ want the child?"

"What?" she said, her eyes widening.

"Do you remember our voyage to Kyrenia a few years ago?"

"How could I forget, Altaïr?" she said, her lips forming a reluctant smile. "We would never have been married had you not decided to drag me back and forth around Cyprus like a sack of grain."

"A rather cunning 'sack of grain' with a sharp tongue and fast legs, I might add," Altaïr chuckled. She laughed as well, and there was a lighthearted moment of silence between them.

"On the ship to Kyrenia, I asked you how you ended up in the Holy Land, and you spoke to me about your family, remember?" Altaïr went on. "There, you told me that the only thing you cared less for than the hierarchies of your ex-husband's household and their dull politics was rearing children."

"You have an extraordinary memory, Assassin," said Maria, leaning back against his torso.

"Only regarding what is important to me," said Altaïr, wrapping his arms tightly around her shoulders. She remained unnervingly quiet.

"Are you all right with this, Maria?" he asked her after another minute's deafening silence. As the words left his mouth, he realized – astonished with himself – that he wanted her to say yes. He _needed_ her to say yes. He thought it might tear him apart otherwise.

"I did not love Peter Hallaton, you know," she said unexpectedly. "It was a marriage arranged by my parents in a last attempt to turn me into the daughter they had always wanted. It was expected of me to give him heirs. It was a housewife's duty, and that's why I rebelled against it." She paused, turned her head over and let her lips brush affectionately along Altaïr's throat, and he let out a sigh of pleasure.

"I never thought I would be a mother and I never wished to be one," Maria murmured, nuzzling against his neck. "But the fact that the baby inside me is yours- the man I married because I wanted to… that makes all the difference in the world."

Altaïr closed his eyes and let out a sigh of relief. His hands, acting almost of their own accord, slid down and settled gently on Maria's belly. She made a sleepy sort of humming noise, and her hands came to rest on top of his own. But then he realized with a start that her usually flat and muscle-hardened abdomen was _bulging_ underneath his fingers. Not much, but enough to make him wonder. He had not seen it through her loose tunic. Perhaps she had dressed in it specifically to hide the small bump.

"Maria, how far along are you?" he asked with a slight frown, running his hand slowly back and forth across her midriff. He had not studied pregnancy thoroughly, but he was sure it would take a while before it became visible.

"I started suspecting it once we came home, and I went to see a healer down in the village," she answered. "I was rather slow to realize that my bleeding had stopped coming and that I was almost constantly exhausted. I described my symptoms to her, and she determined my condition and estimated that it had been between ten and fourteen weeks since I conceived. That was… almost a month ago now."

Altaïr blinked, thinking back.

_Four months ago..._

"Our wedding night," he said with an amiable smirk. "I will remember that day for the rest of my life."

"Indeed?" chortled Maria. "Was I any good?"

"Do you even need to ask?"

"I was only joking, you great oaf," she said with a guffaw.

"I still can't believe I did not realize it before you told me," said Altaïr after their laughter had died away.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," she replied. "The thought that I might be pregnant didn't even cross my mind on our journey home. Now that I think of it, it should have been obvious. I was so tired all the time, among other discomforts, but I thought I had simply caught a sickness of some kind. My own body was covered in signs, and I missed them all."

"But you have known for a while now," said Altaïr, absentmindedly stroking her waist. "Why were you so reluctant to tell me?"

"I'm sorry, Altaïr, but I needed to sort out the chaos in my own mind before bringing it upon yours," she said quietly. "Then again, that did not go as I planned."

"What do you mean?"

"Once I understood how much I care for the child already, I was gripped with this intense fear that you would be angry about it or leave me to raise it alone- Yes, I know now that it was irrational, but I couldn't help it." She had raised a hand quickly to silence him, no doubt sensing he was about to protest.

"Hormones, perhaps?" he said jokingly instead, and he earned a playful smack on his nose for the comment. But then she put her hand back down to rest it on top of Altaïr's, which were wrapped lovingly around her middle, and they both sank into a peaceful silence. A gust of wind pulled on their clothes and rustled the grass and the bushes nearby. A cloud shifted in the darkness above, and they were bathed in soft moonlight. Maria shivered, and Altaïr drew her even closer in an attempt to shield her from the cool breeze.

"You did tell Malik, though," Altaïr said eventually.

"No, I didn't tell him," said Maria with a slightly slurred voice, as if she had been about to fall asleep. "He guessed, and the look on my face must have told him he was correct."

"He is uncannily perceptive sometimes, that man," said Altaïr with a snort.

Suddenly, a long, complaining growl pierced the silence around them, and Altaïr realized it had come from just beneath their hands.

"Oh," Maria gasped, and Altaïr burst out laughing.

"Come on, let us find you something to eat," he said with a grin, patting her stomach lightly. She nodded sheepishly and sat up. Altaïr got to his feet, shook them a little to wake them up and then promptly bent down and scooped Maria into his arms before she had the chance to move at all. She let out a startled yell.

"Altaïr, I can walk on my own!" she exclaimed, but he ignored her, and she did not struggle. She felt tired and sluggish, and she knew Altaïr had noticed. His keen eyes guided him with ease through the garden despite the dim light. As he walked through the gate into the library, he noticed that two guards had been posted just inside. At first, they simply stared at the two of them, looking surprised. Then they recovered their manners and greeted their Mentor respectfully, and Altaïr nodded at them, wondering briefly who had ordered them there. He headed down the staircase and through the corridor leading to the dining hall. He had thought Maria would urge him to put her down once they entered the fortress, as she usually hated being carried, but she was so sleepy that her eyelids kept sliding shut even as she struggled to keep them open. He smiled and kissed her forehead. He stepped into the dining hall and his eye was caught by a lone one-armed man sitting at one of the tables with a much too large pile of bread, fruit and vegetables in front of him.

"Malik," Altaïr called, and Maria roused in his arms.

"Well, if it isn't the happy couple," he said cheerfully. "What a surprise to see you here at this hour."

"You knew we would end up here all along, didn't you?" said Maria as her husband set her carefully down on the stone floor. Malik chortled.

"I assume it was you who posted the guards by the entrance to the garden, as well," said Altaïr as he and Maria sat down across from Malik.

"I thought you might appreciate a bit of privacy, given the nature of your discussion," he said, still smiling. Altaïr bowed his head gratefully.

"You didn't think I would lose my nerve, then?" asked Maria as she began munching on a piece of bread. Malik shook his head.

"Not for a moment, my lady," he said, then tilted his head towards Altaïr. "How did he take the news?"

"How do you think?" said Maria as she finished her bread and reached for some fruits, and Altaïr started peeling a tangerine. He did not really mind the way they spoke of him sometimes – as if he was not present in the room – but he couldn't fathom why they thought it so amusing. Malik fixed him with a piercing look, appearing as if he was attempting to extricate Altaïr's thoughts with his gaze.

"By your moods, I would say he reacted with a mixture of shock and wonder," he said after a moment.

"Sometimes, you seem to be able to read minds, brother," Altaïr said, splitting the tangerine and handing it to Maria, who gratefully began scarfing it down. "Or did you by any chance watch us from a window in the tower?" he added, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Don't be ridiculous," Malik scoffed indignantly, but Altaïr caught a sly sort of flicker in his eyes.

The three of them talked for a while longer as Maria ate, Altaïr joining her after a while, and few others passed through the dining hall. It was quite late, as Altaïr was reminded of when Maria fell asleep right at the table. Not wanting to wake her, he stood and picked her carefully up while Malik watched.

"I imagine our brothers will have something interesting to gossip about if anyone spots you like that," Malik said quietly to him.

"Let them. I could not care less at the moment," Altaïr whispered, tilting slightly so Maria's head would be supported against his chest. Her breathing was slow and steady, and as he regarded her petite form, he realized he was carrying two people in his arms now. A small tremor shot up along his spine at the thought.

"I have never seen you like this, Altaïr," said Malik, peering at the two with a soft expression on his face. "It appears you are ready to rebel against yet another of our old customs, if I am not mistaken."

"If all fathers feel like I do now, I cannot imagine how they could possibly hide their emotions and accept that they will never have a hand in raising their own child," said Altaïr, and Maria gave a soft snore. "Parents should be permitted to love their children if they wish, even among the Assassins. I intend to make it so."

"You never cease to amaze me, brother," said Malik as he rose from the table. He walked soundlessly over to Altaïr – the man whose death he had wished for just a few years ago – and put his hand on the Master Assassin's shoulder, smiling.

"Go get some rest," he whispered kindly. "You will both need all your strength soon enough."

"Thank you, Malik." Altaïr inclined his head and turned to leave.

"Oh, Altaïr?" Malik called quietly just when the Grand Master reached the entrance to the corridor leading back to the library. He paused, giving Malik a quizzical look.

"You may want to cut your hair soon," he said, sounding amused. "You look like a boy."

"So I have heard," replied Altaïr. Had such a remark come from anyone else, he might have taken it personally. He stepped into the library and began ascending the stairs to his personal quarters. The few Assassins he passed did indeed look bemusedly at the two of them, but he ignored it. He was tired as well, and began dragging his feet ever so slightly near the top of the staircase. Once inside their chambers, he lowered Maria gently onto their bed, shut the door and collapsed next to her, not even bothering to undress. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, breathing in the lovely scent of her hair. As he lay there next to her, he briefly dreaded the time when his work would force him to leave her for a while. He would not bring her with him now that she was carrying such precious cargo. Maria stirred in her sleep, and he smiled at the thought of how restless she would eventually become. She had always loved hunting, climbing and swordplay. He would have to remind her to take it easy, and she would be annoyed with him for it. He sighed, wrapping his hands carefully around her growing belly, and he let the warm and somewhat thrilling sensation he gained from the touch lull him into oblivion.

TWO MONTHS LATER

"Blast these endless slopes," Maria grumbled as her foot slipped on the sandy path. In a flash, Altaïr reached out to support her, but she waved his hand away irritably.

"I don't require help for everything, Altaïr," she shot at him, and he smiled. He knew not to take her angry words to heart. It was around noon, the sun hung high in the sky, and the heat was stifling. The robed Assassin swung the sack of fruit he had purchased in the market over his shoulder, glad that he was clad in white.

_Pomegranates, _thought Altaïr, bemused. _She has never liked pomegranates before._

Her pregnancy had begun to take a toll on her, both physically and mentally. As he had predicted, she had grown bored from being forced to rest so often, and the fact that Altaïr had recently been away from Masyaf for three weeks to keep the Templars in line had not improved her mood in the slightest. During his absence, their child had grown rapidly, and her stomach had swollen accordingly. Now, she tired faster and needed to eat and sleep much more than she was used to. She was accustomed to taking care of herself, and when people constantly wanted to help her with whatever she was doing, especially Altaïr himself, she was more than a little irritable.

"You are so stubborn, Maria," said Altaïr, shaking his head as she continued climbing the slope ahead of him. "You insist on accompanying me to the market even if it leaves you with blisters on your feet."

"Actually, it was _I_ who was headed to the market and _you_ tried to stop me. How else am I to get out of the bloody fortress every once in a while?" she asked, rounding on him. "All I do now is sit in the tower reading book after book, surrounded by nursemaids who constantly pester me about why I never learned to sew or cook or take care of my nails." She grimaced in mild disgust.

"Maria, I did not marry you for your housewife qualities," said Altaïr humorously.

"Good. Otherwise I would be worried about your mental clarity," she replied in a snarky tone as she continued climbing the slope determinedly.

"Indeed," chuckled Altaïr. "However, I did not try to stop you. I offered to go in your stead so you would not have to endure this."

"'Endure'?" she repeated, pausing briefly to glare at him. "This is the most exciting thing I have done in weeks, Altaïr. Do you realize that? Something as dull as going to the village market is the most- no, the _only_ remotely active thing I have done lately. If this is how I must live for several more months, I fear I will explode!" Altaïr felt a pang of guilt. He hated seeing her cooped up in this manner, but on the other hand... He spotted an empty bench a few feet away, and he reached to stop her.

"Let's take a short break," he suggested, gesturing toward the wooden bench. She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up his hand to silence her.

"Please, Maria," he insisted, and his tone wiped the scowl from her face. She nodded.

Altaïr deposited the merchandise under the bench as the two sat down. Then he slid the hood off his head and put his arm around her shoulder. He knew she liked seeing his face clearly when they spoke. However, before he had a chance to say a word, she reached out, turned his face towards hers and kissed him. It was a soft, loving kiss, and he understood it was her way of apologizing.

"Forgive me, Altaïr," she said as she pulled away. "I didn't expect this to be so difficult for me, but I feel like a bird in a cage sometimes."

"Maria, I have no wish to keep you from doing what you wish, and I know my behavior is bordering on overprotective, but-"

"'Bordering', you say?" scoffed Maria. Altaïr sighed, pressed his lips to his hand and placed it on her round belly. Her face lost its annoyed edge.

"The only reason I do not want you practicing with swords and climbing the slopes of the village is because I am concerned for you and our child," he said. "I don't know what I would do if something were to happen to you- to either of you."

"You worry too much," said Maria, entwining her fingers with his.

"I know," whispered Altaïr, but he still worried. "Have you felt anything recently?"

It was something else that had been bothering him. When he had returned from his mission, Maria had told him that she still had not felt the child move inside her. Not once, even though she was now approximately six months along, and that was more than enough to make Altaïr fret for the baby's health. She shook her head in reply, and his heart sank, just like it did every time he asked.

"Don't worry about it, Altaïr," she said reassuringly. "I'm sure he is fine in there."

"Why do you keep saying it is a 'he'?" Altaïr asked her, mostly to distract himself.

"I don't know... Whenever I try to picture the baby, it's a boy," she said, frowning slightly. Around them, the townspeople milled about, talking, buying and selling goods, carrying baskets and bags. A few children were laughing nearby, chasing and playing with a stray dog. Altaïr watched them until they disappeared between the buildings, their shrieks of joy echoing behind them.

"Come on," Maria said after a few minutes, getting to her feet. "Let's go home."

Altaïr nodded, rose and bent to retrieve the fruit under the bench. As they began walking again, Maria took his hand.

"I know I can be... hard to deal with sometimes," she said, and smiled when Altaïr gave a snort. Then her face grew very serious and her free hand went to support the bulge of her stomach. "But I want you to understand that I think it is more than worth it. No matter how angry I might become, don't ever doubt that."

Altaïr nodded and squeezed her hand in response. Then she lost her footing on the treacherous and sandy terrain. Altaïr leaned back and pulled on her hand to stop her from falling.

"Maria!" he exclaimed, nearly dropping the bag of pomegranates.

"Damn it! I can hardly see my own feet anymore," she snarled as she regained her balance.

"All right, I have had enough of this," Altaïr bristled. He thrust their purchase into Maria's arms, bent down, lifted her off the ground and resumed walking, all in little more than a second.

"Altaïr, what do you think you're doing?" she shouted, taken aback. A few villagers glanced their way, but he was not in the mood to care.

"I have seen you trip one time too many today. I fear you might fall and break your ankle or worse," he snapped at her.

"You can't carry me all the way up to the fortress," she said in exasperation, gripping the fruit sack. "I'm getting too heavy for this."

"Nonsense."

"Put me down, Altaïr! How do you expect me to learn how to move in this condition if you insist on hauling me around like a crate whenever I overbalance a bit?" she said furiously.

"Maria, had you fallen in these steep slopes- no, I don't even want to think about it," he said with a quick shake of his head, as if trying to fend off a large insect without using his hands. "You may walk when the ground is more even."

"Fine!" she growled, unwillingly acknowledging defeat. "You, by the way, are every bit as stubborn as an old mule!"

"I can't deny that," he said bluntly and kept walking. She was trying to pick a fight, but he didn't want to take the bait. She was indeed heavier than she used to be, but it hardly mattered. For her sake, Altaïr would shift boulders.

"I feel like an invalid," Maria sulked, and he chuckled, his testy mood subsiding. He reached a small square where the land was more or less flat for a change. A small cluster of merchant stalls were hugging the cliff wall opposite him, a small crowd gathered around them. There were no buildings further up except the Assassin citadel. Altaïr turned left towards the path leading up to the fortress, but stopped dead in his tracks as Maria gasped and went rigid in his arms.

"What's wrong?" he asked urgently. Concern crept into his gut as he studied her expression. Her eyes were wide and her mouth slightly open. The pomegranates dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

"Oh my- Altaïr, put me down, now!" She squirmed in his grip, and he hastened to obey. The moment her feet touched the ground, she snatched his hand and pressed it to a specific spot on her abdomen. They both froze, waiting. The seconds ticked past. Altaïr lost track of his surroundings, his entire focus dedicated to his sense of touch. He stared blankly ahead, his mind tossing aside all the information his eyes provided. His ears seemed to have shut down as well; he could no longer hear the usual babble that was always present in the village during daytime.

Finally, something fluttered underneath Altaïr's hand, and his heart jumped. Then followed what was unmistakably a tiny limb pushing against their fingers. Altaïr released his breath, which he realized he had been holding. He looked at Maria, and she was beaming at him. Then her brow furrowed.

"What on earth... are you all right?" she said, lifting her free hand to touch his face. He blinked, and something wet trickled down his cheek.

"Oh," he breathed. It was the only sound he could manage. His mind was still submerged in the fresh memory of the precious little movement, savoring it.

"Are you _crying_?" asked Maria, astounded. He was quite surprised of the fact himself, so he smiled in mild embarrassment, not knowing how to answer.

"Honestly, Altaïr, are you not the man in our marriage?" She shook her head in amused disbelief, wiped his face with the sleeve of her tunic and leaned up to kiss him. Just as their lips touched, Altaïr felt something jab repeatedly against his hand and they both caught their breaths. It was stronger this time.

"_Blimey!_" Maria inhaled sharply, and a shaky laugh escaped Altaïr as the baby kicked again, still more vigorously.

"Where is this coming from all of a sudden?" said Maria breathlessly.

"Is it painful?" Altaïr asked her, recovering from his initial shock.

"No, no, but it-" She yelped and bent forward slightly, grabbing his arm for support. "It feels like he is spinning like a top in there." A small group of people had gathered some distance away and were watching them curiously. Maria glanced at them, then back at her husband.

"Privacy?"

"Yes, please. But I don't trust my legs just now," she said almost grudgingly.

Altaïr was already working. He picked up the battered fruit bag and tied it to his belt with the thread which held it shut. It looked odd, but it would have to do. Then he quickly hoisted Maria into his arms and disappeared up the slope toward the fortress. As he walked, she appeared to be clenching her muscles every time the child stirred inside her, and her breathing was shallow. Altaïr tried to imagine how it must feel to her, but he knew he would never know. He wanted to say something to calm her, and an unfamiliar word surfaced in his mind.

"'Blimey'?" he said questioningly. To his relief, she smiled.

"Don't ask," she said with a shake of her head. "English phrase."

"We're almost home," he told her as he passed through the outer gate. The sounds of clashing swords echoed around the courtyard from the training ring. Altaïr hurried up towards the main tower entrance, inclining his head at the Assassins he passed. Most of them tried and failed not to look puzzled at the sight.

"I think he's starting to settle down," sighed Maria as Altaïr carried her into the familiar library.

"Are you sure nothing is the matter?" Altaïr asked her as he began climbing the stairs, thinking to go to their quarters.

"Yes, I just- wait, let's sit down in the garden. I like it out there," she said as they passed the wrought-iron gate leading outside. He jerked to a halt and turned to exit the tower through it.

"As you wish."

Outside, the sun was blazing down upon the lush grass, the bright green color almost stinging Altaïr's eyes. A gentle breeze caressed his cheek, and he noticed that it was not empty. Two robed women, an elderly lady and a teenage girl, were sitting in the grass near the stream which bubbled in small and shallow stone channels along the ground, talking quietly to one another. When they spotted the Grand Master, they both stood and bowed, and he recognized the older one.

"Sabriyah," he said, nodding respectfully to her. He knew her well from his childhood. She was the closest person Altaïr had had to a mother in his youth, and she was the most patient woman he had ever known. She had been taking care of the youngest children of the Assassins all her life, but a decade ago she had taken to studying midwifery instead. Caring for the Assassins' pregnant wives and delivering their children was far less straining for an old woman than chasing after the young ones who had learned to run, she had told Altaïr once. Of course, when Altaïr had discovered that Maria was expecting, he had gone to Sabriyah right away and asked her to be his wife's personal caretaker. There was no one else he wanted to entrust the job to.

"Altaïr," said Sabriyah, squinting at him through her long graying hair as the wind caught it. Then her gaze moved to Maria in his arms. "Lady Maria, is everything all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine, Sabriyah," Maria insisted. "Altaïr, you can put me down now."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded, and he let her down, but he kept both his hands securely on her hips.

"I take it your child has finally started moving around more noticeably," said Sabriyah after regarding the two for a moment.

"What? How did you know?" asked Maria, amazed.

"My dear, it is written all over both your faces," she chuckled. "It's about time, too."

"You are as sharp as always," said Altaïr. Then he bit his lip.

"You have something on your mind," the elder said, more of a statement than a question. "Out with it, then."

"I was wondering why it might have taken so long for Maria to feel the child move," he said, and Maria turned to look at him, clearly vexed.

"Altaïr, I told you it was nothing to worry about," she said in a tired voice. Sabriyah fixed them with an entertained sort of look, then turned to speak to the young girl next to her.

"Nadia, pay attention. This concerns your studies," she said, then looked back at Altaïr.

"Well, normally, an expecting mother should be able to feel her baby's shifts and stirs after about eighteen or twenty weeks," she began. "However, it varies from woman to woman and depends on whether or not she has been with child previously. First time mothers often mistake the earlier and smaller movements for muscle spasms and motions within their own digestive system. I suspect this is the case with Lady Maria." Sabriyah chuckled at Altaïr's obvious relief, and an old memory surfaced in her mind; a small boy hiding among a cluster of shrubs, spying on the adult Assassins, Umar among them, as they practiced swordplay in the courtyard. The old woman smiled briefly as she recalled the look of intense disappointment on the boy's face as she caught him and took him back inside, scolding him as she went. Then she marveled at the fact that the man standing in front of her – the Grand Master of the Assassins and now soon-to-be father – had been crawling around the fortress on all fours just a little more than two decades ago. It seemed she had been trying to teach him how to read just yesterday.

"Thank you, Sabriyah," said Altaïr.

"I dare say you would like some time to yourselves," said the old lady, her eyes twinkling. "Come, Nadia. We will continue your lesson elsewhere." She put her hand on the shy young girl's back and guided her out of the garden, and the two disappeared into the library.

"Oh, now I'm hungry again," Maria groaned. She dragged a chortling Altaïr down toward the place where she had told him about the child two months earlier, unhooked the sack of pomegranates from his belt and settled down in the grass, leaning against the outer fence. As she opened the bag and fished a bright red fruit from its depths, Altaïr sat down next to her, retrieved a small knife from his belt and offered it to her.

"I never thought I would grow tired of eating," she said as she cut into the fruit with the knife and promptly split it in half with her hands. She still had the strength of a swordsman even though she had recently been grumbling about 'getting rusty'. "I can barely go two hours before my stomach is screaming with fury."

"And I never knew you liked pomegranates," said Altaïr, watching her taste the fleshy insides of the fruit.

"Neither did I," she replied, devouring the food enthusiastically despite her words.

"Perhaps it's not _you_ who wants it, but your little stowaway," said Altaïr, and her eyes narrowed.

"You had better not be comparing me with a ship, Assassin," she said pointedly as she threw the inedible remains of the pomegranate over her shoulder into the valley behind them and started cutting open another one. "Besides, how would the baby even know what a pomegranate is?"

As if in response to the utterance, Maria jumped and dropped everything in her hands.

"Another kick?" asked Altaïr excitedly. Maria nodded, took his hand and guided it to the right spot. After just a few seconds, the child lashed out again, bumping against its father's hand. His own stomach gave a jolt.

"He is a lively one," he murmured after a while.

"You said 'he'," said Maria, looking at him in a triumphant sort of way. Then she winced as the small creature inside her pushed against the wall of her womb again as if determined to escape it.

"Yes, well," said Altaïr after a short pause. "I would rather not say 'it' anymore." Maria smiled. Then she abruptly hunched over, wiggled in discomfort and let out a giggly sort of moan.

"What? What's happening?" asked Altaïr, staring at her with a mixture of alarm and amusement. He had never seen her do anything like it.

"Oh my goodness," she panted after a few seconds, catching her breath. "The kicks are fine- a bit startling, maybe, but when he writhes around in there like a snake, it tickles awfully!" Altaïr gawked at her for a moment, and then he laughed heartily.

"It's not funny!" she exclaimed, but grinned despite herself. "He did this in the village, and I thought my knees were going to buckle. That was the only reason I asked you to carry me."

"Yes, I wondered about that," said Altaïr, picking up the dropped pomegranate, splitting it and handing the two halves to her. "You usually hate it when I... what is it you call it? 'Treat you like a lady'."

"No, I hate it when you treat me like a helpless little girl," she corrected him as she resumed nibbling on the fruit. "There is a difference."

"Fine, fine," said the Assassin with a wave of his hand.

He watched Maria for a while, enjoying the moment. She appeared to be lost in thought. However, a frown formed on her face as she finished the second pomegranate. Altaïr moved closer to her, and she leaned against his shoulder.

"What are you thinking?" he asked her. She sighed and put her hand tenderly on her belly.

"I know I keep saying 'he', but we might be having a daughter," she said.

"You know I do not mind either way."

"Yes, but it will matter to our child."

"What are you talking about?" asked Altaïr, wondering what she was really trying to say.

"There are no female Assassins here," she said, looking slightly dejected. "The only women here are tasked with cooking, sewing clothes, cleaning and taking care of children. I can't imagine such a life." She paused, but Altaïr remained silent, sensing that she was not finished.

"Ever since I was very young, people have been trying to turn me into this kind of woman. I refused to play along and was berated and mocked as a result. All around me, the sons were given weapons and taught how to use them while the daughters were given dolls and pretty dresses, and I could not understand why. I longed to explore the wilds, go hunting with my father, get into fights and roll around in the mud like the boys did, but I wasn't allowed to. Every time I disregarded the social norms and did what I pleased, I felt so free that I believed I might grow wings and fly away. But it never lasted, of course. Once I was caught, it felt like being thrown into a cramped prison cell with no way out." Her voice had grown steadily angrier as she spoke, but now she stopped, breathing deeply. Altaïr watched her as she attempted to calm herself, and put his arm around her shoulder.

"I have had to struggle and fight all my life in order to do what I wanted simply because I am female," she continued. "If we have a daughter, I want her to be allowed to choose her own path with no negative consequences."

Altaïr was about to respond when Maria's body gave a sudden jerk. She took his free hand instantly and pressed it to her stomach again, and the baby nudged him at once.

"I shouldn't get so worked up," she sighed after a few moments. "My _stowaway_ went wild while I was talking."

"You hid it well," said Altaïr, feeling the tiny creature poke his hand energetically.

"I'm starting to get used to it. The stronger kicks make me jump, though. He- or she is still quite small, after all."

"Maria, you are the most unique woman I have ever met, and that's one of the reasons why I love you," he said, smiling at her. "If we have a daughter who is anything like her mother, I am certain she will be able to push through any adversity." He paused to think. He had pondered over the gender roles of the Assassins himself on multiple occasions.

"A small part of the reason why we have no female Assassins is probably because no woman has ever requested to be trained as one, as far as I am aware of. Understandable, as the work we do is both grisly and dangerous. The rest of it can most likely be blamed on customs and norms. Traditions, if you will," he said eventually. "Every son of an Assassin is schooled and trained as one from a young age, so basically, they have no say in the matter even if they wished to do something else with their lives. Those who show talent in different activities such as close combat, gathering information, scouting, archery or theoretical study often specialize within those fields, but that is the extent of their ability to choose their path. The daughters of the Assassins are raised in a very different manner. They are separated from the boys and are taught a completely different set of skills; housewife skills, as you would call them."

"So no male maids, then?" said Maria as she started eating her third pomegranate.

"Have you ever seen one?"

"That was a joke, Altaïr," she said, elbowing him as he laughed. "I suppose the world has yet to see one."

"You are ahead of your time, love," said Altaïr, leaning over to kiss her softly. Her lips tasted of the sweet red fruit she was eating.

"Do you think this will change over time?" she asked when he pulled away.

"I have seen flashes of the future through the Apple..." he said, noticing Maria stiffen slightly next to him at the mention of the artifact. "From what I could discern, defying the traditional gender roles might become something of a trend sometime, somewhere."

Maria sighed. "You spend too much time with that thing," she grumbled. "I fear you will lose your mind at some point or another."

"I know, but I can't seem to leave it be... There are so many wonders to be found in it- so much knowledge from so many ages."

"The here and now isn't exciting enough for you?" asked Maria, a sharp edge to her voice. Altaïr flinched at the underlying indication.

"Why would you say such a thing?" he asked, looking at her, and she saw she had hurt him.

"I'm sorry, Altaïr," she said quickly. "That was harsh, but not unfounded. The Apple of Eden is dangerous, and I- I'm afraid it will take you from me."

Altaïr bowed his head, almost shamefully. He knew her concern was legitimate, for he had witnessed what the artifact could do to a man's mind personally. His predecessor, mentor and father figure, Rashid ad-Din Sinan, had been corrupted by the Apple and used it to enslave the entire village once. Had Altaïr not been directly involved, he would never have believed the old man was capable of such atrocities. A small part of him was constantly urging him to destroy the ancient tool for this reason, yet he could not bring himself to let it go.

"I won't let it," he told her resolutely. "I promise."

Maria held his gaze, scrutinizing his face thoroughly. "I'll hold you to that," she said eventually, looking stern.

"Where is this coming from?" asked Altaïr with a chuckle, wanting to ease the tense mood. "You're not usually this outspoken about your feelings."

"Believe me, it's harder than it looks," she mumbled, sitting up and stretching; several of her joints popped. "Not my style."

"Shame," said Altaïr as he took her face in his hands and their lips met. He ran his fingers through her soft hair and proceeded to plant small kisses along her jaw. When he reached her ear, he continued down to her throat, and she started laughing.

"Altaïr," she said, trying to contain the mirth in her voice.

"Hmm?" he hummed as his lips trailed along her collarbone.

"We have a spectator," she whispered in his ear, and he sighed.

As he reluctantly released his wife and looked up, he saw that there was indeed a man standing a few yards away, leaning against the stone railing which marked the slope leading back to the fortress gate. He was clad in a dark robe with modest silver embroidery, and its left sleeves was cut short and hung loosely by his side. He seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

"Malik!" called Altaïr with a wave. "You're back from Jerusalem, I see."

"My apologies. I did not mean to interrupt," said the rafiq as he came within speaking range. He was still trying hard not to grin too much.

Maria narrowed her eyes jokingly. "What's so funny, Malik?"

"I, uh... I met Sabriyah earlier," he said, gesturing vaguely behind him while trying to rearrange his face. "She told me I might find you here."

"You're avoiding my question," said Maria, getting awkwardly to her feet.

"Oh, just leave him be," Altaïr chuckled, following her lead. He imagined his friend was ashamed to have walked in on them while they were being so intimate. "Did Sabriyah tell you what has happened?"

"You're making such a fuss about it." Maria elbowed him in the side.

"She did not say anything specific, but I can guess," the one-armed Assassin said with a good-natured smirk.

"Well, you will never guess how _he_ reacted." Maria rolled her eyes and tilted her head in the direction of Altaïr. "Would you like to tell him yourself, _husband_?" she asked, barely managing to hold in her laughter.

"You are never going to let me forget that, are you?" sighed Altaïr, and Malik raised his eyebrows in interest.

"What did he do?" he asked, sounding slightly apprehensive.

"He _cried_, is what he did," said Maria matter-of-factly.

Malik looked stunned. "Are you joking?"

"She's exaggerating," said Altaïr, shaking his head.

"I am not!" she exclaimed, once again trying to stop herself from laughing. "You cried! Just admit it."

"It's not like I broke down sobbing in the middle of the village," he grumbled.

"You were in the village when this happened?" asked Malik.

"Near the orator's square," said Maria gleefully. "Oh, that would have been the talk of the entire valley; 'The Grand Master of the Assassins, weeping in public!'" She finally let herself laugh, and laugh she did. Altaïr folded his arms across his chest, eying Maria with a cocked eyebrow.

"Oh come now, it isn't _that_ funny," he said, but Maria responded by laughing even louder, and he raised his hands in exasperation.

"No, I don't think she will let you forget this very soon," Malik chortled, his voice barely audible over Maria's howling cackle.

"Women," muttered Altaïr, though the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his own suppressed laughter. Maria's mood was very infectious. However, she stopped rather abruptly.

"Oh- Malik, give me your hand," she said breathlessly, reaching out to him. He looked at her, puzzled, then shook his head.

"No, I do not think that would be appro-" His words were cut short as Maria seized his only hand with surprising strength and placed it on her swollen abdomen. Malik looked like he was attempting to pull away gently before his entire body froze, his eyes widening. Maria gave him a victorious sort of smile. Altaïr put a hand to his mouth to keep from snickering, wondering whether he had looked so ridiculously shocked the first time he had felt his child move. He probably had.

"My goodness," Malik uttered after a short silence, his voice no more than a whisper.

"You don't have to be so formal with us, you know," said Maria kindly as she let go of his hand, and he half gratefully, half regretfully withdrew it.

"Malik," Altaïr said solemnly, catching his attention, "you are my best friend, my most trusted advisor and my second-in-command. Why would this be inappropriate? That child in there is as good as your nephew or niece."

Malik looked deeply touched. "I am honored," he said, and Maria let out a groan which turned into a gasp. She grabbed hold of her husband's arm and wrapped her other hand around her belly, an odd grimace containing both a frown and a smile on her face.

"Ah, stop it, stop it, please!" she squealed, and the rafiq stared at her in alarm.

"What is going on?" he asked urgently.

"I think I can guess," said Altaïr and put his arm around Maria's waist to stop her from sinking to the ground.

"Twisting," she panted a few seconds later, straightening carefully. "Twisting and turning like a rabid animal. It feels like being tickled with feathers from the inside."

"And this started just today?" Malik asked, still watching her uneasily.

"Yes," she said, looking mildly perplexed. "From what Sabriyah has taught me over the past few weeks, this is not common. It is as if he's been hibernating for the past month and a half, worrying his father sick in the process," – she shot Altaïr an annoyed look as she said this – "and then decided to start dancing spiritedly a couple of hours ago."

"Yes, yes, you told me not to worry, and you were right. Will you let it go now?" Altaïr sighed.

"If you don't mind me saying," Malik cut in, "I think you prefer him nagging rather than not caring at all, Lady Maria."

"You're progressing, but leave off the damn title, will you?" she replied, leaving Malik bewildered. Then she added, "Though you're probably right."

"What is she talking about?" he asked Altaïr, who had snorted at her words.

"She wants you to be less formal."

Malik gave a disapproving grunt. "I have spoken in this manner for most of my life, so I cannot simply stop."

"You Arabs and your stiff politeness," Maria huffed, then grimaced apologetically. "No offense, of course, and I shouldn't really talk. This same courteous civility is customary among the English nobles."

"None taken," Malik chuckled. "This is our way, and you are free to follow yours, whichever way that might be."

"Altaïr doesn't seem to follow this way of yours," she said, tilting her head in his direction and sounding rather pleased about the fact.

"A certain disregard for rules is among the traits you have in common," said Malik, not unkindly.

"Leave me out of this," said Altaïr with a wave of his hand, and Maria snorted. "Anyway, Malik, is this a social visit?"

"I do intend to stay here a while; I left Hazim in charge of the bureau and told him not to expect my return for at least three weeks," he replied, scratching his chin. "However, now that you mention it, I was thinking of calling a meeting to discuss the revision of some of our policies, as you expressed interest in doing so before I left."

"Yes, but perhaps this isn't the best time." Altaïr looked to Maria.

"It's all right by me," she said with a shrug. She scooped the remainder of her lunch from the grass somewhat awkwardly. "I suppose it's time I acquainted myself with your political workings, and I have nothing better to do at the moment."

"Wait- are you joining us?" asked Malik in surprise. Altaïr looked equally so.

"Would a woman in your midst ruin the atmosphere?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Of course not, but it is-"

"-unusual." Maria finished Malik's sentence for him.

"And boring," added Altaïr.

"Well, naturally it's boring," Maria said with the air of explaining how one and one equals two. She folded her arms across her chest and leaned against one of the pillars, shifting her weight from foot to foot."All politics are, but since I have matrimonially bound myself to your buffoon of a mentor, I should know my way around these things so I can provide him with necessary counsel."

Altaïr immediately let out a bark of laughter, though Malik looked briefly flabbergasted before he caught on. The latter clearly had not spent enough time with the Englishwoman to distinguish whether she was pulling his leg or not. Admittedly, Altaïr still had some difficulty with it.

"All right, let's just get inside before it rains," said Altaïr, gesturing toward the sky. He had not noticed the wad of dark clouds drifting overhead until they blocked out the sun. A few small patches of blue were still visible, but he imagined it would be pouring down pretty soon. The three made their way to the upper level of the garden, and, sure enough, they were greeted by the first drops of water just before they passed through the gate.

"Ouch!" Maria exclaimed and leaned against the banister of the grand staircase.

"Is something the matter?" asked Malik as Altaïr made his way to her side in an instant.

"I don't know how, but the baby just either kicked or punched me in the ribs," she said, torn between amusement and irritation. "And it actually hurt."

"Are you sure you want a lecture on Assassin politics right now?" asked Altaïr with a lopsided smile, picking up the half-eaten bag of fruit Maria had dropped, but she snatched it back from him.

"I'll be fine once I sit down, but if this child won't take it easy, it will be impossible for me to concentrate on anything."

"I've no doubt," said Malik. Maria looked up to see a hint of something that looked like fear flit across his face as he watched her.

"I suppose neither of you can imagine having a living creature squirm around inside you," she said with a snort.

"_No,_" they both answered simultaneously, shaking their heads as if the word was not enough.

"Men," Maria mumbled and started dragging them off towards the conference room. "You would be lost without us."


End file.
